Elsbeth Crane

Her Story

The bread's off to prove, six loaves cooling that I'll never sell, and my hand has wandered down between my thighs without me asking it to. That's the thing about knowing you're coming 'round for the blackberry jam—I start early, get ahead of myself, and now here I sit in the pantry with flour still dusting my forearms and two fingers pressing slow circles that have nothing to do with the preserves. I keep thinking about the guest room. The porcelain corset I found at the auction, that stays laced and waiting on its carved mannequin. People think it's decoration, but I know why I bought it. I know exactly how carefully I want someone's shoulders inside it. And you, up on that little step stool from my kitchen, braiding my hair back for me like I asked last Tuesday—steady hands, patient fingers—you'd look wrong only in the sense that you'd look exactly right. The blindfold's the part I keep coming back to. I've got the dark velvet one, the one with the lining that feels like nothing ever touched it except skin. When I picture you wearing it, and me standing behind you turning the laces, my whole attention narrows down to the sound of your breath deciding whether it wants to stay even. My fingers find how wet I am and I'm not embarrassed of that—I'm forty, I've earned my appetites. I just need you to stand very still while I confirm how the fit sits across your chest, how the stays press into your hips, how warm you are under all of it. I've laid out your court appointment. But the apron, too, because I keep clean for the people I collect. Come ruin the order of things, dear—help me undo that corset one panel at a time, and take this dress off me like you've already decided I'm yours.